


She'll Come Back As Fire

by verity



Series: switchverse [5]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, Families of Choice, Romance, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-20
Updated: 2002-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The adventures of Miss Julia Riddle and Miss Geneva Potter at school.</p><p>This is very much a TNG fic, although definitely more "Degrassi" than "Star Trek."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a sadness beyond your grief

**Author's Note:**

> _"To die by your side – Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine."_ **There Is A Light That Never Goes Out**, The Smiths

**:01**

They are the perfect match.

Flashes of white skin and bright hair against the dark of the dungeon corridor at midnight; ghostly figures moving in the most dangerous of dances.

He hates to interrupt them as they duel; the lines of their bodies are fluid in motion yet always perfectly in sync. Flitwick's favorite students, Thomas's now that the former Gryffindor teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts. Bitter enemies, of course; though that is only to be expected. Gryffindor and Slytherin.

He and James Potter had been skilled duelists; it was only to be expected. But never this good.

James Potter's eldest granddaughter moves upward to block a Stunning Spell and fire back a Flammatus Charm; Julia Riddle slides neatly out of the way and responds with a Freezing Hex. A statue takes the brunt of it as Geneva Potter ducks and somersaults directly onto his feet.

"Miss Potter, twenty points from Gryffindor, a detention, and Professor Thomas will be hearing about this. Miss Riddle." His voice is calm, firm, and sharp – he's said this, what, tens upon hundreds of times before to them? Geneva Potter's green eyes narrow slightly in amusement and the corner of her mouth twitches. "Miss Riddle, fifteen points from Slytherin, and a word with you."

Julia Riddle smiles at him, a cold, chilling smile. "Certainly, Professor Snape." Her voice is cool, sharp, crisp, perhaps just a little out of breath from the duel.

The two girls nod at each other as he turns to exit the room.

"I'll be winning next time, Riddle," says Geneva Potter.

"Oh, I don't believe that," her classmate replies, with another of those thin, harsh smiles. "Do you?"

When they reach his office Severus Snape seats himself behind his desk and glowers firmly at his most troublesome third-year. Julia Riddle doesn't notice; she's staring off in the distance, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with the glory of the duel.

He clears his throat and she suddenly brings her eyes to his. Utterly unselfconscious, completely brilliant, competitive, ambitious: this is Julia Riddle. The perfect Slytherin.

"Miss Riddle. This is the _third_ time in two months that I've caught you and Miss Potter dueling, and let me remind you that the policies regarding dueling on school premises are _not_ likely to be ignored in this case-"

"It's the third time that you've _caught_ us," his student answers him.

And in her he sees Lucius, himself, at thirteen, eighteen, twenty. "May your arrogance serve you well, Miss Riddle. Provided that it doesn't lead you down the wrong paths."

"But, Professor," she protests, taking her leave, "that would require that I follow."

**:02**

Julia Riddle makes her way back to the common room, still smiling. "_Oculus serpentis_," she mutters, and the stretch of bare stone wall that conceals the entryway slides back.

Martius Malfoy is leaning against the doorway, his long, lanky body blocking her way. Mentally, she curses – he's a fifth-year, a prefect, and not so much a trouble as a _bother_. "What are you doing out of bed, Riddle?"

"I have my errands," she says coolly. "Step aside."

After a moment, he does, and Julia brushes past him. Martius puts a hand on her arm to halt her. "Nothing's without a price, dearest."

Of course, she thinks wryly, though her face is as hard as stone. She lifts a hand to his face, then kisses him thoroughly, slowly, and quite without feeling.

"Julia-" he protests, when she pulls away.

She glares at him. "Riddle. Don't forget that name, Martius, and what became of the last who bore it and attended Hogwarts."

He backs away, and Julia smiles. It heartens her to see him cringe. Martius, who is the last of the Malfoys – Martius, whose father barely had time to wed his mother and bed her before the Ministry tracked him down and placed him in Azkaban alongside _his_ parents – this Martius fears her.

"Voldemort?" he asks her, as she moves past the grand fireplace that is the heart of the cavernous Slytherin common room.

"The cultivated innocence is charming, but it's also as transparent as a dragonfly's wing. Of course Tom. Who did you think I meant?" She laughs, and it comes out harsher than she's expected.

"Your darling forbear, I assume?" Martius lifts an eyebrow.

"You – might say that."

With that she retires to her chambers, but her thoughts keep her awake far into the night. Somehow the thrill of the duel seems smaller under the pall her name casts over everything it touches.

At last Julia Riddle decides that her mother will be proud of her, and falls asleep, tangled in her crazy quilt of velvet in Slytherin colors.

**:03**

The dreams haven't gone away.

They have returned in full force in the last three years, and only bring their dreamer misery. Severus Snape can no longer remember her face; he awakens aroused and drenched in cold sweat, knowing that he has seen it in his dreams, and forgotten it upon entry to the waking world. This is not an easy thing for a man to bear.

He sees her in the immaculate cursive of Julia Riddle's hand and in the structured style of Geneva Potter's prose. He sees her in the way that certain students smile when Minerva McGonagall gives them praise. He sees her in the rain that falls on Albus Dumbledore's grave, in a quiet hollow near the Forbidden Forest. He sees her in all of these things, and yet her face escapes him, eludes his memory, hides in the deepest recesses of its mind to torment him in his sleep.

He could ask Harry Potter for a picture, but he isn't that weak. Ron Weasley is dead, an Auror killed in duty ten years ago. And Virginia Potter… simply isn't feasible.

Severus is a Potions Master; he is very good at what he does. He can make a tincture of hazelwood without the least bit of fuss; he can brew hundreds of potions and philtres without consulting a book for reference. He is not the least bit humble about this expertise.

Yet he cannot bring himself to prepare that deadly mixture of wormwood and asphodel; he cannot bear to so much look at the book that contains the instructions for making that concoction. The Draught of Living Death would free him from his demons, for a few stolen hours at least.

But instead he chooses to sit on the bench near Dumbledore's grave late at night, not doing anything constructive, but merely allowing himself the luxury of memory.

The curves of her alabaster body; the gentle sloping of her shoulders; her chestnut hair, silky between his fingers; the way she kissed, as if he were a bottomless well from which she could never drink enough.

"Hermione." Severus speaks her name aloud one night; something he hasn't done for eons.

He hears nothing but the sound of leaves stirring in the late autumn breeze, and the crack of thunder in the distance. A storm is coming.

He wonders if this is an omen, if Dumbledore, or she, perhaps, is sending him some kind of warning.

**:04**

Everyone else in Gryffindor is going home for Christmas.

Geneva Potter is the only one in her house who does not pack their trunk on the last day of term, anxiously procure their owl from the Owlery, or snitch some food from the kitchens for a snack on the train ride home.

She suffers their pitying and sympathetic looks with patience, not expecting them to understand. After all, their mothers are either quite healthy or dead.

Hers, on the other hand, is neither.

Geneva's mother stopped being able to leave the house when Geneva's younger brothers were around three. Seven years ago. Geneva herself was six. It was the beginning of the end. Now her mother merely floats around the house, a thin, white-clad breeze, who talks to a dead man who isn't there and confuses him with Geneva's father.

The fact that the dead man shares Julia Riddle's last name does not exactly endear the girl to Geneva. But she is secretly happy to be Julia's nemesis, because in the midst of the duel, she loves it. She loves the feel of magic running up her spine and coursing out her fingers, the adrenaline rush of dodging and blocking spells, the feeling of power. She feels pure in these moments, when she doesn't have to think – just _be_.

Neither of them have ever won, of course – they always call it a draw – but this is less a frustration than it is a challenge. In those moments when they finally declare it a tie, she feels not defeat, but triumph, an odd sense of exhilaration she can never quite explain.

Sometimes she wonders how it might have been had there never been a Tom Riddle for her mother to fall in love with; sometimes she wonders if Julia might have been her friend.

When she is the last Gryffindor remaining at Hogwarts, and night has fallen, she makes her way to the dungeons, knowing that Julia Riddle will be there, wand in hand.

Geneva feels light and almost carefree.

**:05**

Plunk, plunk, swirl, stir. Two parts anise seed, two parts mandrake leaf, one part powdered tumeric. Julia mixes these together with care, as Geneva Potter, who has been her laboratory partner in Potions since Snape took to pairing those of opposing houses, dices two cloves of garlic to add in later.

The Potions Master is strangely late for class this January day. Between the combined fear and awe of the Gryffindors and the almost bellicose respect of the Slytherins, the room is silent but for the sounds of the Well-Seasoned Youth Philtre being prepared. The final ingredients have been added to the broiling contents of their cauldrons by the time Snape flings open the door.

"Carry on," he says after a moment, and they do, frightened by his unusually forgiving demeanor. Their teacher throws himself heavily into the chair behind his desk and rubs his eyes, sighing, not looking up until their Well-Seasoned Youth Philtres have begun to become tepid. "Bottle them," he commands, "I will grade them later, though I think that the lot of you getting anything above mediocre marks on even such a simple philtre without my competent direction is quite unlikely. When you are done, I have an announcement."

Julia glances over to her partner to gauge her reaction, only to find that Geneva has done the same. So she only raises an eyebrow in answer before tending to the fragrant liquid in her cauldron. The two of them finish quickly.

"What do you think it's about?" Geneva asks her in low tones, which is surprising given her lab partner's quiet, reserved nature outside dueling.

"About?" Julia repeats. "I'm not precognitive."

"I know, I-"

"I know," she says, cutting Geneva off. "Never mind."

Finally their Professor clears his throat, and the twenty-odd students turn towards him. "I will not coddle you," he tells them. "Last night, Draco and Lucius Malfoy escaped from Azkaban's fortress. Three hours ago, the Dark Mark was found hanging over the home of Colin and Elizabeth Creevey. All of their family, with the exception of their eldest son, who is a Gryffindor first year, are dead."

One of the Gryffindor girls bursts into tears, and Geneva Potter looks quite distraught. But Julia herself only feels the fire within her, hardening her and strengthening her.

On impulse, she suddenly grabs her lab partner's hand beneath the table and squeezes it.

"You needn't worry," whispers Julia Riddle. "I want them dead. And I always get what I want."


	2. a hatred beyond your heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Is he real or a ghost lie she feels she isn't heard - And the veil tears and rages until her voices are - Remembered, and his secrets can be told."_ **Lust**, Tori Amos

**:01**

They aren't friends. Not exactly.

But now and then, whenever one of them wins - for they do win now, but neither any more often then the other - the other may offer the winner congratulations. For they both, as fifth years, as prefects, nearing the end of the summer term, know now that their dueling games are not so much game as practice; the wizarding world is entering wartime again, slowly, and surely. The Dark faction is rising.

Led by the Malfoys. Geneva does not forget _that_.

And last time, when she praised Julia's well-practiced Amorphous Hex, Julia said to her, "You know why I duel you, don't you?"

"Why?"

"Because it's always good to have a friend on the other side. No matter who wins."

She did not know what to answer to that, so merely nodded, and walked off, flustered.

_L'espirit d'escalier_ \- Geneva slips into the French of her classmate Celeste Davies, daughter of Roger and Fleur. The spirit of the stairway - all those things she might have said.

Well, she'll have a chance to say them now.

Julia is waiting for her on the steps that lead down to the entrance to the Potions classroom, wand in hand.

"No matter who wins," says Geneva. "You're on my side."

Julia considers this for a moment; then nods. "Fair enough."

(They aren't friends. Are they? Frankly, she no longer knows what friends are - she's never really had friends. Her classmates as like to her as the moon is to the sun; her brothers dream like their mother: Paris of dark curses and gremlins that lurk in shadowy corners, Toulouse of the sweet green of the Quidditch field.

Julia always tells her how Paris is doing in Slytherin; she is grateful for this.)

They both smile - a bit awkwardly - and then Julia shoots up a Disorienting Charm, and they're off.

**:02**

Severus Snape awakens one morning to the sound of something banging against his window.

He recognizes the owl, ancient and weary as she is. Houle, Hedwig's successor - tawny plumage adorns a determined spirit. He gives her a treat, and opens the letter.

"A boon for a boon, hmm." His long white fingers trace the scattered lines and loops of a former student's handwriting. _A life for a life_, he thinks abstractly - _Vita Pro Vita_.

That was the curse she had used. He remembers her voice, sweet and sinister in his ear, other times, on the floor, nails dragged across his back, flesh gathering beneath them. He remembers - her. Missing. He has not sought her out again - perhaps it is better not knowing.

Severus goes over to the bookshelves in the far east of his bedroom; presses his hand gently against the cherry molding on the one closest to the window, murmuring a revealing spell of his own devising. The hidden catch releases; the molding swings out; what is left is an extremely narrow space full of papers and various personal effects.

Not his personal effects, however, for these were confiscated from Malfoy Manor some eighteen years ago. Except for one, freely given - Lucius, in his cell at the Ministry before being moved to Azkaban, had told him where it lay, and that someday, he, Severus, might be needing it.

He wonders now what Lucius knew - knows - and has never told. About her, or Harry's wifeÉ Taking the worn, silken tie from its resting place for oh-so-many years, he shuts the cabinet, then stretches the eighty-year-old sign of Slytherin to test its strength. Strong enough.

"Don't go giving out any of Lord Voldemort's old school things," Dumbledore had said once to Lucius Malfoy - Lucius had repeated the words from his cell, adding, "But I never took the old fool seriously - and why should you?"

_Why should you indeed? Because it is only nearing twenty years after the fact that his influence is wearing off, that you can escape and raise all Hell again?_

Dumbledore is dead now, and Severus does not fool himself - were the old man alive, this would not be happening. But Minerva is Headmistress at this school now, and blind to things the previous Headmaster would have felt curdling the very marrow of his bones. It is left to him to administer a Slytherin sort of justice to old alumnae, old lovers and pupils. The more illustrious ancestors of original owner of the tie he now holds in his hand would probably have approved.

He forges a note, in the perfect cursive he remembers his former master having. It is simple, sharp, and sweet - a call from the afterworld, to a beloved. It will burn up as soon as she reads it, and its ashes swept away by an intangible wind. He sends the tie and the note back with Houle.

_Virginia_, he thinks, remembering: her desire to give her once-beloved an honorable death, her quiet, gentle resolution, the way she had looked at Dumbledore's funeral, tired, dreamy, utterly a possession. Now he envisions her as she is, not as she once was: a thin, ethereal being, lost to an imaginary love on another plane. Harry had no right to ask this of him; but he does it for Virginia, thinking that how odd it is that this may be the greatest kindness anyone has ever done for her in her short life.

**:03**

It's the night after her first classes as a sixth year begin when Professor Snape stops her in the hall.

"Geneva," he says, and how odd it is that her mind ignores the ominous sadness and apprehension in his tone, leaving her thinking only how strange it is to hear him pronounce that name. She wonders whether she's going to get a talking-to; she's rather thought that the professors have given up on that. "Miss Potter. I apologize for interrupting your excursion-"

"You're not supposed to apologize!" Anger is the easiest defense against the wrongness she feels, the quickening beat of her heart. "You're supposed to be upset and forbidding with me, and take away house points. I don't want you to be _sorry_."

His face... Geneva is not certain what she sees there, but all of the sudden it seems as though lashing out at the terror has only allowed it further reach into her mind, its black tentacles of nightmare swallowing up her heart. "Miss Potter." Snape's mouth is a thin, grim line, "I did not know your mother especially well, but I do not think it is your place to deny me the right to be sorry."

How silly it is: she is thankful for this brutal frankness, rather than the cruel kindess Professor Thomas showed her. "I do not think it is your place to tell me this," Geneva answers, turning away.

"Miss Potter." He has said her name three times now - and each time there has been something it the way he said it that pulled her back from the edge; she listens, and moves no further. "I did not know your mother especially well, but I knew your father when -" There is a long pause that might have made her curious some other time, but now she is so numb that she barely notices it. "I knew him a long time ago. If it is any solace, he loved her. Very, very much. Enough to sacrifice himself for her."

"You are greatly mistaken if you consider that consolation." She turns toward this new, cold, regal voice, and she is not surprised to see Julia Riddle standing beside their Potions professor. "Sacrifice is a fool's choice more often than not, unjustified and useless. I beg of you, Professor, to mind that Potter is not a child, not some little first year for the coddling." To Geneva, Julia says merely, "_Tantellegra_."

They have never dueled so violently or harshly before; instead of exhilaration, Geneva feels tense, and almost afraid. Finally, they both pause for breath, and she has to sit down, she's shaking.

"You're both very good, you know," says Snape - she has almost forgotten he's there.

"Thank you, Professor," says Julia.

Geneva sits there, her head between her knees; and she does not look up until Snape's footsteps have long ago vanished off into the distance.

**:04**

She kneels before Geneva, watching the girl's shoulders' quiver with every quickly drawn breath, waiting until Geneva no longer shudders. Julia has a great capacity for patience, where it is warranted. She can wait all night, if need be.

At last, Geneva looks up - her green eyes are luminescent in the torchlight. "Thank you."

"It's not a problem," she replies, taking Geneva's hands into her own. "He had no right. Not with you. With your father, perhaps, but not with you."

"Thank you." They sit there like that for interminable moments, eyes locked in an unbroken gaze.

A cool wind blows through the hall, ruffling the long skirts Julia wears beneath her robes that are standard for a Slytherin witch of good heritage. The long hall on the upper level of the dungeons stretches out on either side of them into the shadows; they are utterly, completely alone.

Geneva leans forward and kisses her.

She is taken completely by surprise/has known in every fiber of her being for all eternity/knows in that moment/all of these? but no matter. And it suddenly seems incredibly vital that they stay forever trapped in that moment, lips locked, kneeling on the floor of a deserted corridor in the dead of the night, before they separate and know that nothing will ever be the same again.

**:05**

The funeral is a solemn affair. Virginia is the second child that the Weasley family has lost to an untimely death, and they bear the marks of this sorrow carved into their souls, painted on faces naked of farce and pleasantry.

Severus looks at the closed casket, piled high with white lilies, and imagines the last moments of Virginia Potter's life.

_She takes the letter from Houle, forgetting entirely the hungry owl, and opens it. For a second she is incredulous; then joyous. "'Come to me'," she whispers. "Oh, Tom, I will." She walks barefoot in a white, virginal nightgown into the wood behind her house, the tie in hand, and finally stops in a little grove of trees lit by the afternoon sunlight. The tie is easily made a noose - she steps up on the stump of what was her family's Christmas tree two years earlier - she jumps._

And she is free.


	3. only it was me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"I recognize the walls inside me - I recognize them all - I've paced between them - chasing demons down - until they fall - in fitful sleep - enough to keep their strength - enough to crawl - into my head - with tangled threads - they riddle me to solve."_ **I May Know The Word**, Natalie Merchant

**:01**

They are very private people. Perhaps this is part of the problem.

Julia Riddle, as Head Girl, has her own bedroom this year - eliminating the necessity and heady recklessness of stolen kisses in storage closets and darkened corners. But they still duel - and for this dueling she lives. It is not the innocent exhilaration of their third year, nor the more studious and practiced fighting of their fifth year, but something far more dark and desperate.

And when they return to her room they cling to each other, trying to deny the void ever-present in their lives, of which they hover uncertainly on the edge. They rarely speak, outside of class work and dueling technique; it is easier to forget what they are training for, that way: a life of duplicity and hurried tenderness.

Julia's room in the dungeons is furnished with rich brocade wall coverings and a velvet-hung four-poster. But it has the advantage of being adjoined to both the common room and an external passageway - she almost wonders what Snape was thinking of when he selected the apartment for her. Almost.

On nights when she cannot sleep afterwards, Julia watches the play of lamplight across Geneva's hair, and wonders why it so looks like dark, vicious blood upon the pristine white of the pillow.

**:02**

There are strange undercurrents running through the castle. He, as a teacher, hears all the rumors last.

"-heard that Iesobel Esse's ghost was spotted in the Slytherin dungeons, and no one's seen her in simply _ages_-"

"-his great-granddaughter! _She'll_ be the one to wrest control from those upstart Malfoys when she gets out of here; and we'll see a _real_ nightmare the like of which we haven't seen in twenty years-"

"-dead woman turned up in a pond outside Hogsmeade eighteen years ago? Some say she's Martius Malfoy's mother, and a _real_ Riddle-"

"-you ass, you can't be serious! Paris Potter's the one who's in Slytherin; even if his older sister's hanging about the likes of Riddle, he'll be the one to turn first, mark my word-"

"-they'll get in through the Chamber! If Malfoy has Marvolo blood in him-"

"-the Bloody Baron hasn't been seen in ages, and Peeves has been unusually quiet-"

"-got to be kidding. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would have _done_ it already-"

"-Myrtle appears to have taken up permanent residence in the sewers-"

"-that madwoman who killed the Dark Lord last time is in with them! Always knew the Malfoys were ripe targets for ruddy Mudblood _whores_-"

"-I'm worried about Toulouse, he's been looking distant these days - do you think he _knows_ something-"

There are strange undercurrents running through the castle. But all the Head of Slytherin can do is listen.

**:03**

She wakes in the wee hours of the morning, one crisp November night, and is unable to go back to sleep. So, impulsively, Geneva Potter takes the shimmering silver Invisibility Cloak that she and Toulouse share (for long ago they knew that such a thing must never be put in the hands of Paris, dear as he is to them.) Draped in the soft fabric, she makes her way through the sleeping castle to Julia's room in the dungeons.

This is the face of the castle that she adores; the only one that she loves.

Geneva stops in front of a portrait of Gesius Lott, a former Divination professor, and whispers the password, "_In silencio et nocturne eo._" _In silence and night, I go._

Lott smiles a very Slytherin smile, and the portrait swings open, soundlessly in spite of its age. The house-elves keep everything very well taken care of. At least, aside from the storage rooms.

She curls up in the large easy chair beside Julia's bed - for Julia is fast asleep, and this is something that Geneva knows is treasured very much indeed. The easy chair is comfortable enough, and the soft rhythm of Julia's breathing has almost lulled her to sleep by the time she is suddenly jolted out of her dozing by a terrified shriek.

It is not the yelp of surprise she is familiar with from her brothers; but rather a cry full of horror and fear, that sets her heart to pounding.

"Julia? Julia? What?" she says, scrambling to her feet, dizzily making her way to the bed. She can barely see in the dim lamplight, but she moves quickly. For Julia Riddle is shuddering, and this frightens her almost beyond reason.

Geneva wraps her arms around the other girl and holds her, awkwardly and unsurely. After a while, Julia sighs, and makes an attempt to pull away. Geneva, however, is not so easily thwarted.

"What is it?" she asks.

"How did you get here?"

"I couldn't sleep; I didn't think you would-"

"It's all right. You can - come here any time you need to. You don't have to ask."

"_Tell _me. I should have the right."

Julia looks at her for a moment; her black eyes are inscrutable. "Yes."

"I won't ask that much of you," she replies quietly. "But it's something to remember."

"It's nothing that should worry you. I'm fine."

"You're very good at pretending."

"Am I? Am I really?"

"You fooled me. But," here Geneva tempers her voice with a little humor, "I'm a Gryffindor. We are very gullible."

"I," murmurs Julia, "envy you."

Julia says nothing more (of consequence) that night, but Geneva feels reassured, and the November night no longer seems quite so bitter cold.

**:04**

"Minerva," he addresses the Headmistress, "there's something wrong in the school."

She raises an eyebrow, and takes a sip of her Scotch. (He has stuck with tea; old habits die hard, and Dumbledore had never been much of a drinker.) "Oh, Severus?" she asks, sounding dubious. "We haven't had so few disciplinary issues in _years_. What on earth do you mean?"

"Do you know _why_ we've had so few disciplinary issues?" A question for a question.

Minerva McGonagall frowns at this. "I'd assumed - well, we haven't half so many troublemakers. Julia Riddle does wonders to keep the Slytherins under control, and Daniel Wood's set a marvelous example for the Gryffindors."

"Slytherin House is _not_ under control. It has never completely been, I assure you, and will never be. Any sign of obeisance on its part simply means that things have gone further underground, beyond my realm of influence. The prestige of Slytherin House has always been built upon money and power; it is run by rumors. If this newfound lack of bellicosity in the school has been pleasant for you, Minerva, enjoy the small interlude while it lasts - because turmoil is brewing beneath the surface. Other houses are quieter as well - not silent with respect, but gagged and bound by fear."

"You sound like Sibyl," she dismisses him; this is not the first time they have spoken upon this subject - or quarreled. "More Earl Grey?"

"Dumbledore was not nearly sorted into Slytherin for nothing. Remember: discretion is the better part of valor. Dumbledore was subtle, Minerva, and would have seen the truth of matters to which you have unwittingly turned a blind eye. I do not mean - to criticize you, or hold you up to an unfair standard-"

"-but he was far better than I, and _you_ should have had the job. You know the school board's prejudices." Minerva's voice is now bluntly grim and serious. "I cannot run this place on hunches; logic is my game. It is not enough. It's very difficult for me to take you seriously, you know. I try."

Severus Snape looks around the office; twenty years after his death, it is still littered with the various magical gewgaws and gadgets that Dumbledore had once collected. He feels the former Headmaster's presence most strongly in this room, less an office than a veritable shrine, and wonders what message the old wizard is trying to send him.

He remembers another evening, when he sat beside Dumbledore's grave, hungry for a forgotten face and desperate for his past. The lull before a storm. His stomach churns; he takes another sip of his tea to soothe it.

"What do we do now?" the Headmistress asks wearily.

"We wait," he says, for this is the only answer he can give; the tea is tepid when he finally thinks to bring the cup back to his lips.

**:05**

"Are you going home for the holidays?"

"You know I never do," replies Julia, closing her Arithmancy textbook and looking up from her workspace towards Geneva, with whom she is sharing a library table. "You?"

"The same."

"Catch up on our dueling, shall we?" Their tones are quiet; though they do not always get along well with Madam Pince, they are far from transgressing on such hallowed grounds.

"I certainly hope so." Geneva hesitates, the rapid movements of her quill stilling. "My father knows about us."

"Really?" It's not as though Julia hasn't expected it, though. Walls have ears, however minute. "Most likely Paris. I'm surprised it's taken him this long. Usually he's quicker with his petty vengeances."

"Should I ask?"

"Probably not." Julia plucks a fresh roll of parchment and her Potions text from her rucksack. "Are you worried about it?"

Surprisingly, Geneva laughs. "No. Dad is - rather uninterested about all of us, as a whole. We remind him too much of Mum, I suppose. I was more thinking of you. If Dad knows-"

It's Julia's turn to laugh - though hers is a darker sort of amusement. "My mother knows. She doesn't care in the least. She won't tell anyone - she hasn't spoken to anyone in the wizarding world since before I was born."

"Oh. What about your father?"

She smiles languidly as she refills her quill with ink. "I would assume he knows as well. But he'd never, ever say anything."

**:06**

"-Potter. And Riddle. Yes, _that_ way! Isn't it frightening? Absolutely surreal-"

"-they say that Filch found another message, like the ones from thirty years ago, scrawled on the wall outside the girls' bathroom-"

"-do you _really_ think it's been opened again? I mean, it's just legend, right-"

"-that Potter girl's mother. They say insanity is hereditary-"

"-and just where did she come from? I've never heard of another wizard by the name of Riddle-"

"-I'm frightened, truly, I-"

"-bloody favoritism! If it's not Geneva Potter getting the top marks, it's Julia Riddle-"

"-You-Know-Who's _real_ name - Tom Marvolo Riddle-"

"-absolute puzzle, a complete riddle-"

"-Riddle-"

"Riddle."

It all comes down to one word, thinks Severus Snape. He stares into the fire and wonders.

**:07**

"No one's been Petrified. I mean, it's completely unproven," Geneva offers. They are finishing up their extra-credit project for Astronomy from that tower (though, in deference to their Professor, they have avoided the sort of behavior that students generally engage in there at such hours.)

"Did you get that constellation mapped? but I agree with you. However, unproven does not necessarily mean untrue." Julia bites her lips, thinks a bit, then crosses off one of the arrangements of stars.

"Are you thinking of that in particular?"

"How shrewd of you, Geneva!" she remarks. "I'm proud. No. Not in particular."

"Ah."

"You _are_ a terribly good Gryffindor, you know. Discretion being the better part of valor."

"You _are_ a terribly good Slytherin, you know. Pithy quotes and all."

"Don't you mean Ravenclaw?"

Geneva squints. "Is that Ophiuchus?"

"Wrong season _entirely_."

"But I'm sure that if we put down that we saw it in January, Professor Sinistra would be quite impressed with our eyesight."

"Do you really think that the Heir of Slytherin is back?" Julia asks, setting down her quill.

"What do you think?"

"I believe that Martius Malfoy has Slytherin blood in him, even if he never knew it until his father and grandfather got hold of him. But he's not here. Yet."

"No. If they were, it would be you. And you wouldn't."

"You're too trustworthy."

"Am I, Julia?"

**:08**

They come upon it almost by accident, one weekend when most of the school is in Hogsmeade.

Geneva is doing her essay for Defense Against the Dark Arts on an arcane Dark spell, _Vita Pro Vita_, when she stumbles upon a strange footnote in _Grave Magicks: Spells For This World And Beyond._

"_Vita Pro Vita'_s counterpart, _Vita Ex Mors_, has not been used since Mediaeval Times, both because of its redundant nature and the laws that were set in place against necromancy in 1151. However, _Vita Ex Mors_, as previously stated, is merely an extension of natural sacrifice magic (Chapter Five: _Harsh Payments_), a catalyst in that it takes less energy (i.e., the life of a unwilling participant, rather than the life of the willing participant) to be effected."

So, naturally, she, the erstwhile scholar, turns to chapter five in search of more information.

Julia blinks in surprise when Geneva throws the door to the Head Girl's room open.

"What?"

"She did it. God, she did it, and I- so blind. So bloody fucking _blind_. How could I-?" Geneva's words are soft, but uttered quickly; they trip over her tongue. A nervous patter vibrant against the silence of the dungeons.

"_What?_" She says nothing. Julia closes the door, then takes her by the hands, leading her to the bed. Geneva sits, not letting go of Julia's hands - they have always been a lifeline to her. "What?"

"Mother. Mummy. She- the tie. She hung her self with his tie. We didn't see it. We - he must have known. God. Even if he didn't know - about that - he had to have _known_-"

"Tom Riddle is dead." Oh, the irony, to have this from Julia's lips. When so many times - he had said - to her mother -

"No." Geneva whispers it; but it her ears it seems louder than even the keening of a banshee for a mortal life long dead. "No. She took the tie. She wished - she dreamed. She wanted more than anything. She knew what to do. And all this time he's been waiting - and Martius Malfoy was seen last week in a pub ten miles east of Hogsmeade-"

And Julia looks at her honestly, naked of pretense. "He's coming to let him out."

**:09**

They leave a note for Professor Snape - he doesn't seem to be in his office, and they've never deigned to inquire as to the location of his more private quarters. Then, Julia Riddle and Geneva Potter make their way to a certain girls' toilet, now empty of its former spectral occupant.

It's such an innocuous little entrance. They peer at the copper tap that featured in one of Geneva's mother's favorite tales of her childhood. Then Julia taps her wand on it impatiently.

"Open!" Geneva commands.

Nothing happens.

"Open, you piece of magically imbued shit?" Julia offers, thinking that this may be an improvement on tact.

Nothing continues to happen.

"I think..." Geneva suggests hesitantly, "that we may need to work together on this one." And Geneva outstretches her hand.

Julia eyes it contemplatively for a moment. Then she seizes it. "Very well."

They crouch down before the tap, and whisper their orders. "I am Geneva Titania Potter, daughter of Harry, he-who-speaks-the-tongue-of-serpents, daughter of Virginia, lover-of-the-serpent-tongued. _I will not be denied_."

"I am Julia Livia Riddle, daughter of she who brought down Voldemort from his throne of blood and bone. _I will not be denied_."

Together, they speak, as one: "**_Open._**"

And the Chamber does.

**:10**

Searing, burning pain - fire across the flesh of her right wrist, the hand that clutches Julia's left one; it eats her alive. She does not remember screaming; but she must have done, for Julia is steadying her with her free hand, and the noise rings around in her ears. She never lets go.

A serpent - serpents? twines around her wrist; not so much a scar but a brand. Geneva sees the scorched red flesh of Julia's left wrist, and knows how much this calmness must be costing her.

_Geneva?_ Julia asks. _Are you all right?_

_Yes_. She closes her eyes. _Your battle now_.

She is lying; it will be still belong to both of them, no matter where she lies; inside that room or here, on the cool stone of the bathroom floor. But somehow this makes sense to her; the world has suddenly shifted to allow thoughts to seem a reasonable means of communication. Her power ebbs away in her; she shifts into the blackness of sleep.

A kiss she sends to her beloved. And a wish.

**:11**

Geneva a strange, dreaming presence at the back of her mind, Julia makes her way into the Chamber of Secrets, down the tunnel, into the half-light. She is not surprised to see a young man there, with dark eyes and hair almost like to her own.

"Hello, Tom," she says, with a smile that is almost genuine (with relief?). "I'm sorry about the wait."

"I knew you would come. Who are you?" He stands, his back to the immense statue of Salazar Slytherin, surrounded by the jagged smoothness of rock on all sides; the light picks out his sharp cheekbones, the brown highlights in his hair.

"Your granddaughter." And this is not a lie. For who has been so cunning, so shrewd, so gifted as the young Dark Lord as Geneva and she?

"A female Heir? Displeasing. And yet - hmm. I rather fancy that you may be better than the alternative."

"Oh, I assure you that I am _far_ better," Julia replies, and in the blink of an eye she has her wand trained on him. "Martius is not only incompetent, he refuses to remember his origins. I, however, have no intention of ever making my name anything but Riddle."

"You have made a bad move there, pet." He does not look frightened; but neither does she, no matter how scared she truly may be. "Who _are_ you?"

"My name is Julia Riddle. I duel."

Tom smirks; it's a fetching, ingratiating smirk. "Do you fancy yourself a duelist, then?"

"Oh, I fancy myself many more things than that."

The duel is different from hers with Geneva; in a way, theirs are more sophisticated, for they've had nearly seven years to learn the intricacies of each other's dueling styles. But Tom is good - as good as they are, certainly, and fights in a manner nearly a century old, a form that is as like to hers as the sun is the moon.

But this gives them both the disadvantage; he cannot anticipate her sudden ducks and rolls, nor many of the more recently developed curses and hexes.

"_Glacius!_" shouts Tom.

"_Parvi Nervi!_" Julia fires back, neatly dodging the ball of ice.

"_Arachnafunesta!_"

"_Miserus Filiolus!_"

Finally he has her cornered, up against one of the many pillars that flank the main corridor of the Chamber. "I told you that you were making a mistake," he hisses in her ear.

"I told you," she murmurs, sliding her arms around him, surreptitiously slipping her wand up to touch his temple, "that I was the true Heir. _Claude Librum._"

And Tom Marvolo Riddle crumples in her arms to ashes, and the ashes drift away, lifted by an invisible wind, to leave a small diary, worn and tattered but otherwise intact.

**:12**

"Hello, Professor," Julia Riddle greets him coolly. She is sitting on the edge of Geneva Potter's bed, and holding the sleeping girl's right hand.

Not an hour back from Hogsmeade, Severus Snape has already heard from Minerva McGonagall, in strictest confidence, that these girls defeated the Dark Lord. This statement was punctuated with Julia's extraordinary arrival in the infirmary, book in pocket, Geneva floating behind her. He assumes that little has changed since then.

"Congratulations," he replies, taking a seat on a chair next to the bed. "You appear to have won."

"Nothing is without price."

"But certainly she will recover...?"

"Oh, not that." Julia draws up the left sleeve of her school robes; he is stunned to speechlessness in the wake of what he sees there.

"That's the sigil of Slytherin."

"She bears it as well. Salazar does not appear to be discriminating on the basis of actual Slytherin heritage."

"Have you decided what you're going to tell the reporters, Miss Riddle?"

Julia eyes the apparently sleeping Geneva. "I'll leave that up to her. It's her choice."

"Why?"

"Think, Professor. Think about sacrifice magic, and a present you were once given, and a present you gave, and a boy..."

Lucius. In that moment it all falls together in his mind - Harry, Ginny, the long-dead Ronald, _her_, trapped in Malfoy Manor for two days - a silken tie - the tie that binds - a spell - a programmed resurrection. Lucius has always loved dark comedies on the greatest sort of scale.

He must have made some noise; some movement; but he cannot recall doing so.

"No," says Geneva Potter's voice faintly; they both turn to the other girl, and he notes how protectively Julia's hand curves over Geneva's. "We're not going to say anything to them."

Julia simply nods, with a small smile, showing approval and understanding. Geneva smiles as well, and then closes her eyes, as if to return to her rest.

Severus Snape is, however, still confused. "Why?"

"I know what fame has done to my father, and infamy to Julia's mother- I would not want such a curse bestowed on either of us," Geneva murmurs.

All this time - it had been right there before him - he had never seen-

His daughter simply looks at him calmly, serenity in her black eyes. "You will say nothing, Professor. Agreed?"

**:13**

By the end of the month Geneva is fully recovered, and soon there are exams to thing about; they bury themselves in academia. She rarely bothers with returning to her dorm. Julia seems happier, if a little subdued; they begin to speak of an apartment in London for after they leave Hogwarts. Both have been unconditionally invited to join the Ministry of Magic, Geneva as an Auror, and Julia as an Unspeakable. They send their letters of acceptance back on the same day.

On the day the last of the OWLS are finished, they retreat to Julia's room, and sleep for forty-eight hours.

"That's it, then," Geneva pronounces upon waking.

"Yes," Julia agrees. "For the moment."

"It seems almost... as if it were all a dream. The exams. Everything."

"I know. No one will ever know."

"Except for us. We can treasure it."

Julia leans over and kisses her; they are both sleepy, weary, and hungry, but at the same time she realizes that such things have never mattered with them.


	4. vengeance and dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Still scorned by his demon - Because he's undone - Become the language of - Disaster and Love - Vengeance and Dust."_ **The Tale of Dusty and Pistol Pete**, the Smashing Pumpkins

**(epilogue)**

**:01**

He takes the train in to London, against his better judgment; to his dismay, he finds that the only even partially unoccupied compartment contains Julia Riddle and Geneva Potter, the former being fast asleep.

"Hello, Professor Snape," Geneva greets him courteously - he wonders how long she has known, or suspected, and if she would tell him if he asked.

"Hello, Miss Potter."

They spend most of the train ride in more-or-less amicable silence, until they are nearly at the station.

"What brings you to London, Professor?"

"Potions ingredients. Some of the more strictly regulated ones have to be obtained directly from the Ministry."

"Ah."

"Where are you intending to go?"

Geneva glances down toward Julia, whose head is in her lap. "We're looking for an apartment - we'll be employed by the Ministry. We may stay with Julia's mother a few days."

"Ah."

She smiles down at his daughter. "I've known since the night my mother died, Professor. That's what you were going to ask, wasn't it?"

**:02**

She goes to meet them at the station; her daughter, and her daughter's lover, done with Hogwarts at last. Once she might have felt apprehensive, or jealous, or angry - even last year. Perhaps.

But, she understands now, her daughter is not of her world. And this is her world; the London Underground, the apartment, the hospital; it is not world she was born into, nor the world she has given up to her daughter. It is a land to which she has been exiled, and after twenty years she has come to understand its harsh beauty.

The girls are waiting just outside the station. Julia, with her dark eyes and devious smile, is laughing at something with Geneva, who looks very much like her mother. And there is man standing next to them.

For a moment, she stops breathing.

She is quiet in her approach; Julia is the first to see her.

"Hello," she says quietly to her daughter, with a nod that includes Geneva, before turning to face him. "Who wins, Professor?"

He looks startled, shocked, as if he hadn't actually expected her to appear; but he had to have known, he was waiting for her...

And it is Ginny's daughter (of course) who unexpectedly diffuses the situation. "_We_ win."

"Yes," she agrees, looking away from him. "Yes, you do."

**:03**

She takes him aside; steers him away from Geneva Potter and their daughter.

"Hermione-" he begins. "I know- I know I was wrong-"

She laughs at him. Harsh, bitter laughter. "You know, Professor, I used to dream of the day you would come crawling back to me. I waited. And I waited. And after a while I no longer dreamt of you saving me but of me spitting on you, kicking you, _destroying_ you." She pauses. "That was a long time ago. Be thankful that I have more mercy than that now."

"You would have taken me back?" He clings to her first words, like a drowning man clings to driftwood in a gaping sea he had been so far from only seconds before.

"You never came."

"I never knew," his voice is a whisper, "Until she looked at me, that day in the infirmary, and told me that no one was to know they had killed him. I saw her in you. I saw myself reflected in her eyes. And then - I came. Too late. I have always been too late to save anyone."

"I'm sorry."

They stare at each other for a moment; and suddenly he understand that she isn't _she_ anymore, and perhaps she never was. She is no longer beautiful (was she ever? had he gifted her with loveliness she had never had?) but merely looks as if she has come to terms with her age. She's merely a woman whom he knew once, a long time ago, and never very well - he feels lost, adrift.

"I never knew you," he says.

"No," she replies. "You did not."

"I used to wish, sometimes - but I don't, any longer. I am grateful for her, Hermione. More than I can ever express in words."

"What did you wish?"

"That I had never touched you."

"Do you know where I would be now?" She looks up, away from him, at the darkening London sky. "I would be married to Ron. We would have had three Quidditch-happy boys who were also quite good at maths, and Ron would have insisted that I stay at home to look after them. On the day the eldest left Hogwarts I would have slit my wrists in our bathroom and felt no small amount of satisfaction at seeing the stains the blood made on the immaculate white carpet. Minerva McGonagall would have read about it in the morning paper, and burst into tears, as she drank her first cup of tea in the staff room. And you would have sat there, helpless and unable to comfort her or halt her tears, feeling slightly awkward, and perhaps a little sad."

"You are alive now," he points out.

"Goodbye, Professor," she says, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

"Goodbye," he whispers.

And she is gone.


End file.
